Small Stories
by apprentice wordsmith
Summary: My brain isn't working very well, so I'm reduced to writing in 15-minute increments. What is a writer to do? Write LotR drabbles and short fics, of course! They vary slightly in length, but most are between 100 and 500 words, and all are family-friendly.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, now that I've scared you all with my description that makes it sound like I'm dying, let it be known that I'm not. As far as I know, of course; I suppose I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. But I moved to the mountains a few years ago, and the thin air is doing a number on me and my ability to think and write. Have no fear, dear reader; I'm moving later this spring, almost certainly to a lower altitude, and I'll be back to normal in no time. For now, enjoy this little collection of super-short fics, featuring characters of all races/species, which I'm writing to keep myself in the habit of writing, until I can go back to novels.

oOoOo

Éomer cast his keen gaze over the yearlings as they trotted here and there in their paddock. The youngsters had been brought for his inspection, now that they'd survived their first winter, and he would pick out the best of them, to be trained for his own use as warhorses.

In truth, he only needed one or perhaps two new horses. Already he had Dragon, who, at four, was nearly ready for the battlefield; Starlight, who was seven and in his prime; and good old Blizzard, who was ten and had a few more years in him before he was ready to retire.

But uncertain times called for extraordinary measures, so he was searching for another horse.

One of the colts took exception to the others and broke away from the little herd, kicking and bucking playfully, his hooves throwing up clouds of pale dust like smoke. Éomer pointed to the colt. "Let me see that one," he instructed the groom hovering at his side.

The colt was haltered and brought to him. Éomer checked its teeth and eyes, picked up each hoof, and examined every inch of its gray hide for defects. He found none, and he liked how the colt eyed him curiously, interested but not frightened. A lazy or unresponsive horse was a dead horse, and this one looked to be neither.

"I'll take him," he finally said.

He couldn't know it at the time, but the colt would save his life many times on the battlefield, and its name would be remembered in story and song as one of the greatest horses in history.

Firefoot.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I just realized something interesting, and tangentially related to this little fic: Bilbo hosted and paid for a one-day fair, to which everyone in town was invited. They all received at least one present (many of them imported from outside the Shire), spent the entire day eating (and drinking), and watched a show of fireworks that evening. I think we can say he's pretty darned rich, given what all that would have cost. Thank goodness his birthday was in the autumn, just after the harvest was gotten in, else the food would have been far more expensive.

Anyway. Onward!

oOoOo

The first sign of Dwarves near Bagshot Row was the murmuring of their deep-voiced song drifting over the fields and lanes, long before the Dwarves themselves ever set foot on the Row. Sam Gamgee, tending the late potatoes in his father's garden, looked up and smiled to hear their chanting. It was not as good as Elvish singing, to be sure, but it sounded well enough, and as they must be here for the Party, they were more welcome than most strangers in the Shire.

Soon enough, the song was joined by the clip-clop of a pony's shod hooves and the rumble of cart wheels on the cobbles. Sam stopped even pretending to hill up the potatoes and leaned over the fence, to be greeted by an extraordinary sight.

A pony cart, pulled by the furriest little beast he'd ever seen, and carrying upon it four singing Dwarves and a great many bulging sacks.

The pony was of little interest to Sam, and the cart only caught his eye because the shafts were finely carved and the wheels painted cherry red. But the Dwarves! Sam had never seen such long beards, and any hobbit lass would be proud of such intricate plaits, winding in and out of the others and bound with silver clasps that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Though it was summer, all four Dwarves wore woolen tunics and deep conical hoods shading their eyes. Their deep voices boomed from within, singing in a language he did not understand, but made him suddenly and unaccountably think of a smith's forge and the shaping of metals.

The cart rolled on up the hill and a bend in the road. Sam watched it go, happy that none of the Dwarves seemed to have noticed him. He'd seen at least one axe-head poking out from between the sacks, and a green-and-gold painted shield hanging next to the driver's box. In the Shire, such things would see no use, but he couldn't help wondering what dangers their owners must have passed through on their travels.

Many minutes passed before the echoes of the Dwarves' song died away. Sam sighed and straightened up from where he'd been leaning on the hoe. "Well, that was a fine sight, and no mistake," he said to himself, and went back to tending the potatoes.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This one is movie-verse, and assumes Rose is about the same age as Frodo and his friends.

oOoOo

Working at the Dragon wasn't exactly proper employment for a hobbit-lass, but Rose liked it well enough. She certainly overheard the most interesting news as she refilled mugs and polished the plates.

The taproom was loud, and Rose so busy, that she heard only snippets of the talk between old Mr. Tunnelly and the Sandheaver lad.

"-gone all the way to Buckland-"

"Ach!- he does that often enough, does Mr. Bilbo."

"-bringing Mr. Frodo back-"

"-to stay, I heard!"

"parents drowned-"

"-poor lad-"

Finally she understood what they were talking of. So Mr. Bilbo Baggins was planning to adopt his cousin and bring him to live at Bag End!

"Just fancy that!" she said to her mother later that evening, after she was safe at home. "There's not a hobbit luckier than Mr. Frodo, if he's going to live up on the Hill, in that fine hole. They say Mr. Bilbo brought back enough gold from his travels to fill entire tunnels!"

Mrs. Cotton took a rather different view of the matter. "You know better than to listen to that old gossiping Tunnelly, my girl," she scolded gently as she washed the supper dishes. "It's none of your business what Mr. Bilbo brought back from his travels, and even if all of Bag End is stuffed full of gold and jewels, I'll not envy Mr. Bilbo nor Mr. Frodo."

"Well, not envy them, perhaps," she conceded, toweling off another plate and placing it atop the stack on the shelf. "But it'd be nice to have riches, don't you think? Then you could hire a hobbit to clean the plates."

"Riches, aye, that'd be nice. But not all the gold in the world is worth what they've had to do to get it. Think of Mr. Bilbo, traipsing all over the mountains, fighting dragons and orcs and I don't know what all, and coming home only to find his nearest relations trying to take his house for their own.

"And as for Mr. Frodo," Mrs. Cotton added, "you think all that gold can make up for losing his mother and father, and being stranded among the Brandybucks for so many years? I don't. Let them have their riches, and much luck may it bring them. I think it far better that they'll have each other; I know I'd rather have my family than any chest full of gold."

Rosie thought about it. "I suppose you're right." She rested her head on her mother's shoulder for a moment in lieu of a hug, then went back to drying the dishes and putting them away.


	4. Chapter 4

Merry set his tools down next to the leaf-covered garden bed. Spring had come early to Crickhollow, and all around him, whispers of green were emerging from their slumber, poking up through the leaves, stretching to reach the sun.

He had purposely left a layer of dead leaves and detritus over the beds last autumn, to protect the plants from snow and cold. Now they must be uncovered.

He raked and scraped for a time, now standing up, now on his hands and knees, gently peeling back the crinkly brownish carpet without disturbing the plants he wished to keep. The work was not difficult, and he soon found himself humming a little nonsense song.

Until he cleared away one patch, and found a clump of old friends staring up at him. He sat back on his heels and drew a deep, startled breath.

Simbelmynë. Merry stared down at the tiny white flowers, braced for the wave of heart-breaking grief that always rolled over him when he saw the little blossoms.

But it didn't come. The awful darkness, the horror of watching Théoden King cut down by the fell beast, his own helplessness- they were memories, not images forcing themselves before his eyes.

Instead he saw the great and kindly lord bidding him sit beside his chair and tell him stories of the Shire. He remembered the gifts he had been given, and the king's gentle laughter when he stammered his thanks. The sun on his banner, the white horse upon green snapping in the breeze as it was raised above their heads. A mighty host of warriors, riding on to glory whether they survived or perished. And the memory of their deaths merely hovered in the background of his mind, a reminder of past pain that only had the power to touch him if he allowed it.

He did not. Instead, he gently cupped a flower in his hand, not plucking it from its stem.

Evermind, it was called in the Common Tongue. Always remembered.

And he would always remember his friends who had gone before him. But it did not necessarily follow that those memories must be sad.

Merry heaved a great sigh, smiled, and went back to clearing away the detritus of winter. The little flowers bobbed their white heads in the sun, nodding in approval of his work.


	5. Chapter 5

Two years after his encounter with the Witch-King, and the subsequent weeks of feeling nothing but cold, Frodo thought this particular day a pleasant one. Others might disagree.

It was summertime in the Shire; the sun beamed down from cloudless skies; the hay dried in the fields; everyone wore their lightest clothing and did their chores in the early morning or late evening. Frodo would not pretend to be as miserable as the rest of Hobbiton, but he was rather concerned for one other hobbit, who worked hard with little respite.

Poor Sam had only returned yesterday from the far north of the Shire, where he had been busily distributing the Lady Galadriel's gift to him. Each new tree had a grain of the grey earth of Lorien placed at its roots, a small task, but one that Sam would not allow anyone else to do for him.

And he had come back to find Bag End's garden threatening to take over the entire hill. Frodo had pulled a few weeds in the interim, and was careful to water the plants that needed it, but he'd found cutting the grass and edging the front flower bed to be beyond him. Thank goodness for Sam, who had been quietly appalled at what needed to be done, and had set to work with a will, though the heat was intense and the sun relentless.

Frodo had offered his assistance, and been rebuffed. He chose not to take offense, and retired to the library, where he had been puzzling over a bit of poetry that was reluctant to be translated into Elvish.

An hour later, he began to think a bite to eat might not go amiss, and as he wandered into the kitchen, happened to glance out of the window.

Oh, dear. There was Sam, red faced as he slowly straightened up from his labors, wiping away the sweat beaded on his brow and leaving a streak of mud behind. Even from a distance, Frodo saw him sigh heavily, then he cast a glance over the flowerbed to determine what should be done next. Decision made, he mopped his face again and bent to the task.

Frodo smiled to see his friend's determination, and was less pleased to see him suffering for the sake of what was, in truth, a not-particularly-urgent series of chores. The garden had been neglected for a fortnight; what was another few minutes, or even another day?

Since he knew the impossibility of convincing Sam to see it the same way, Frodo took another tack. A moment later, he had collected a glass, water, and a few small chunks of ice from the rapidly dwindling blocks that lined Bag End's deepest cellar.

A wave of heat blasted Frodo's face as he opened the front door, and he paused, remembering a time when such heat would have been intolerable to him. But it was no longer so, and even the sunbaked stones of the path were merely pleasant under his feet.

Sam didn't look any better up close, but he greeted Frodo with a smile, and seemed grateful for the opportunity to lean on his spade for an instant.

"It's a bit warm out here; will you take some water?" Frodo said, and offered the glass. Sam looked at it with mild suspicion.

"Do you have one for yourself?" he asked. Frodo shook his head, and Sam shot him the sort of look that only a trusted servant or dear friend could get away with. "You drink that, Mr. Frodo. I'll shift for myself. You needn't worry about me."

"Nonsense," Frodo said firmly. "You know as well as I that the hottest day is pleasantly warm, to me. And I have been sitting here, at my ease, while you labor to keep my home in order." Sam still looked mutinous, and Frodo smiled. "Dear Sam," he said, more softly, "You took care of me, in far worse places, when there was no hope of rescue. And now you will not allow me to care for you?"

After another moment of hesitation, Sam took the glass and drank deeply. "Oh, that's good," he said. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome." He might have said more, but words failed him at that moment. _It's the least I could do for you, my dear friend. And I shall not be here much longer; let me do what I can, while I can. A glass of water is nothing to what you've done for me._ Finally he said, "All of your worry is reserved for my garden; save some for yourself. I shall be very angry if I come outside again in an hour, only to find you fainting from overwork." There. Perhaps that would convince Sam to take care of himself; he had always put more stock in Frodo's anger than in his concern.

Frodo returned to the cool shadiness of the library, happy that he had been of some use to Sam, who had been of such use to him. Master and servant they might be, in the eyes of the world, but two hobbits could not endure the privations they had met with, and not become friends. And Frodo, clearer sighted than many of his fellows, saw no impertinence on Sam's part, nor degradation on his.

They were friends. And he would care for his friends for as long as he was able.


End file.
